


The Empty Flat

by 3littleowls



Series: The Empty Flat Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Fluff and Crack, Fluffy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Post Reichenbach, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, did I mention the angst?, setlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/pseuds/3littleowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns from the dead but finds his life not as he left it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Derelict

Sherlock's footfalls echo up the seventeen steps to 221b. It's evening, but he doesn't bother to turn the lamp on. Enough streetlight glows through the windows to dimly light the flat. He dumps his shoulder bag carelessly on the floor in the landing to lighten his load before he crosses the room and gently sets his violin case down. It goes in its proper place near his music stand by one of the windows. He hangs his Belstaff and the morning suit's garment bag on the two coat hooks behind the door.

He folds himself onto the sofa. It had been a lovely wedding, he admits to himself, at least for a tiresome customary ritual. He fully understands the reasons why people go through all the pomp of course; he can even reference various sociology journals on the topic. However, it still seems like a grand waste of time. Humankind should really have evolved away from the fuss surrounding a simple pairing up. Now John and Mary are off on their honeymoon, which is yet another boring tradition. At least it is one he is not expected to be a part of, and now he is finally back home.

Home. It was what he had dreamed of for two years. Two years of chasing down the remains of Moriarty’s network. Two years of hunting and hard living. Traveling to places he would have never chosen to see, eating things he never wanted to taste again. He had killed for the first time; two men. One was clearly for self-defense, but the other had simply been an assassination. It had been necessary for his goal, and his target had been incontrovertibly guilty. He had been too dangerous to attempt to hand over to authorities. The killing is not something he feels regret over, but being the one to mete out punishment is not a role in which he is fully comfortable.

For those years he had yearned for the Thames and Trafalgar Square. He had wanted nothing more than his books, violin and Baker Street. A few crimes to solve involving strangers and nothing with personal consequences. Nothing that could burn the heart out of him. He is still surprised he could pine so deeply for everyday things. Now it is over and done and he is finally ensconced in his flat with the early evening bustle of London right outside his window.

He sighs into the darkness. He had somehow functioned on the assumption things would have remained the same in London with him gone. It was embarrassingly foolish to have spent so much time woolgathering over his return. It had bordered on romantic daydreaming, which gives him a stab of self-disgust. Obviously he couldn’t press a pause button when he fell off the roof at Bart's; life had resumed without him and things continued to change. Obvious.

He had thought he would return to a warm hearth and steady companionship. Instead his partner had got on without him. John had moved out, found himself a spouse and continued forward with a new life that did not involve the ghost of Sherlock Holmes.

Realizing the error of his expectations now does not comfort him. The flat still seems cold and dark with an emptiness that leaves him feeling hollowed out. It's just the unexpected, he chides himself. John Watson was after all, was always a surprise to him.

He curls into the back of the sofa and remains that way until the light of the morning.

 

####

 

“Hey.” John peers into the open door of Sherlock's sitting room. “I've brought lunch. Mrs. Hudson said she was sick of trying to feed you.”

221b still feels odd to John. A combination of somewhere he still belongs, but yet it is no longer his home. It reminds him of seeing his old bedroom at his parent's house after they turned it into a guest room. It contained his old familiar furnishings but with all his personal flotsam gone. Stripped of anything distinctively John, yet oddly still the same. His old headboard had a new mattress and a floral coverlet. The same wallpaper he started at his whole childhood was there, with all his football posters removed.

Anything belonging to John had been packed up and moved out of Baker Street years ago. He supposes Mycroft kept up on the rent, because the same furniture was still in the flat. The cow skull with its headphones was even there, too.

However, not everything was old. There is a new mirror over the fireplace with an arabesque mosaic border. Books stacked over every surface, yet he sees no signs of the usual pile of newspapers. A chess set John doesn’t recognize with marble pieces sits on the floor. The violin is in its usual spot, but in a different case. Perhaps it is even a different violin? He wouldn't be able to tell anyway. Things were familiar, but not quite the same.

Sherlock is perched on his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. He is in his dressing gown in the middle of the day, long graceful feet bare. His eyes flick over John before gazing back at nothing. He doesn't return John's greeting.

So John busies himself in the kitchen, moving aside abandoned experiments and charred Erlenmeyer flasks. It wasn't a lie that Mrs. Hudson needed a break from Sherlock. She had called John with increasing worry over the last couple weeks. He was unusually quiet. No banging in and out the front door; in fact he hardly left the flat at all. No sawing away at his violin at all hours. No gunshots, bad telly or police cars zooming up to the kerb.

“Lestrade tells me you were cleared to consult on a few cases again.” John tries again, conversationally.

“Yes, in a limited manner.”

“So...working on something?” He sets out the pad thai, and Sherlock pulls himself up to come to the table. He moves like an old man with stiff joints, his old careless grace gone.

“No.”

John eats and watches Sherlock scoot his noodles around his plate in silence. All attempts at conversation falling flat. It's not that they hadn't spent hours not speaking before. But this wasn't a companionable type of quiet or Sherlock being lost in thought. There was something that felt deeper in the silence this time.

“You know if you ever need anything...well. Mary and I only live a few Tube stops away.” He tries.

“What would I possibly need?” Sherlock asks, but he keeps his eyes fixed on down his plate of uneaten food. John feels a cold prick of fear for his friend.

 

####

 

John taps the sides of his teacup restlessly. “Something seems odd with him. I mean, more strange than he usually is.” He tells Mary.

“He seemed just fine at the wedding,” she tries. “Maybe he's just taking a break? He was running around for two years. I'd want a bit of a lay about after that.”

John scrunches his face in concern. “Not really his thing. I mean he's a lazy bastard, sure. It all changes if he can get on a case and then he is a man of action. Lestrade said he can offer him certain kinds of cases now, but he won't even look at anything.”

“Depressed, then?”

John shrugs. “It’s possible, he has dark moods. They usually don’t last long enough for me to think anything clinical was wrong. I saw him in a pretty bad state once over that Irene situation.”

Mary puts her arm around his shoulder, offering comfort. John leans into it with a hum of thanks.“If you think he needs you now, you should go. Maybe stay over a couple days.”

John laughs. “You mean, like bring a sad movie and some ice cream and we can have a good cry over his feelings?”

“Maybe not,” Mary admits with a smile, “It would make things easier if that worked, though.”

 

####

 

“Please John, go check on him immediately. I fear the worst.” Mycroft's voice sounds distant over the phone. “I'll send a car.”

 

####

 

When John arrives at Baker Street he finds Sherlock is sitting bolt upright in his chair, wearing only pajama bottoms.

“Sherlock,” John says firmly, and strides in front of him. “Let me take a look at you.” He knows exactly what he is going to find, and takes a deep breath to keep professional. Sherlock's dark curls are matted down around his temples in sweat, and his face is flushed. As John bends closer he can see his eyes are a bit bloodshot and his pupils are dark and wide.

“John. John.” Sherlock begins in stream of rapid fire words, “Who sent you? Mycroft? Of course it was Mycroft. He's spying on me again. He noticed someone different came by the flat, had him identified. It's the cameras. Those cameras of his…he must have ran complex facial recognition algorithms against a national database. It should be abuse of power to...”

“Shhh.” John lays one hand on Sherlock's shoulder to settle him, taking up the mantle of the calm doctor. His skin burns. John then presses his fingers against the carotid, and counts the beats. His pulse is too quick, but not dangerously so. John tries to ignore the plummeting feeling in his guts as he finally grasps Sherlock's elbows and rotates his arms. He finds the little puncture in the crook of his left elbow.

“How much and how long ago?” John asks, remaining steady. He doesn’t really have to ask what Sherlock injected. Mycroft and Lestrade both had laid out Sherlock’s past history with cocaine and morphine shortly after he had moved in. John feels a little tremor pass through Sherlock's arm.

“Not nearly enough and about nine minutes and thirty-two seconds ago. I'm fine. I'm perfectly capable of administering a proper dose. It's wearing off, it doesn’t last long. It didn't have the desired effect this round. More data is needed but I'm not sure if I have enough to make the next solution. Especially if Mycoft is scaring away every bike messenger in London with his black cars and cameras and...”

“Stop,” John orders him. He is trying so very hard not to lose his temper and now is the wrong time for that. “I should take you to A&E.”

“No!” Sherlock yelps, and springs up from his seat. He grabs at John, grasping at his clothes in desperation. “You can't. They will call Lestrade. I won’t be able to take cases at all if it happens again. They will court order me back to a dreadful clinic John, you won't. I'm fine. I know what I’m doing and you are here, so there is no need to...”

“Calm down, Jesus, you are going to give yourself a stroke!” John pries Sherlock's fists off his jacket and swats away his attempts of regaining a hold. “You are going to go and try to lie still for a bit and not to piss me off.” John orders and starts steering him to the sofa, “When you come down from this we are going to have a good and proper chat, hear? If at any time you start acting like a bigger wanker then you are right now, I am dragging you in. You are going to do every damn thing I say.”

“I knew you wouldn't make me go.” Sherlock interjects. John feels another shiver go through the lean body as he pushes him down on the sofa.

“Congratulations, arsehole, case solved.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“Shut up. Lie down and go to your bloody Mind Palace or something.”

Sherlock complies, watching John intently as he moves around that flat. He stops by the kitchen and clicks on the kettle; he hopes Sherlock has tea because John is going to need some. He supposes he can borrow some from Ms. Hudson, but he’d really prefer if she was left out of this little drama.

With that done, he moves through to Sherlock’s bedroom. It’s still tidy as a pin, so it doesn’t take much looking around to find a long sleeved cotton tee shirt. John stops by the toilet and retrieves the first aid kit, thankfully still well stocked. He wets a clean flannel before he heads back to his patient fidgeting on the sofa.

John takes Sherlock’s pulse again. “Slower. I think your ride is almost over.”

“Yes, I know.”

John scowls and grasps his arm, runs the flannel over the injection site. “I really hope you used a clean needle.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I’m not warning you again.” He makes a few perfunctory wipes to get some of the drying sweat off Sherlock’s temple, neck and chest. Pulling an alcohol pad and plaster out of the first aid kit, John cleans and covers the needle prick. Sherlock lies back and tolerates the fuss on threat of arrest.

“Your body temperature is going to start to go back to normal, put this on.” John hands Sherlock the shirt. “I’m also guessing you’re not going to feel particularly happy when you crash.”

“I know.” Sherlock decides not to helpfully mention he usually would inject a bit more at this point to ease himself down.

“I’m going to make tea, order some take-away and call Mary. I think it might be a good idea if I say over tonight. Is that okay?”

“Unnecessary, but it’s fine. Don’t call Mycroft.”

“You forgot you are in no position to be making demands. I’m going to text him and tell him you haven’t overdosed, and I’m looking after you. You can fight with him later.” John goes into the kitchen and leaves his idiot friend to slowly sink into the depressing aftereffects of a stimulant high.

 

####

 

John waits for a couple hours, giving Sherlock a chance to lie down for a bit and recover. He finds the rest of the cocaine solution among his chemistry gear, and washes it down the sink. Sherlock refuses to eat, which is expected, but John gets him to drink a couple cups of tea.

Figuring he has put it off long enough, John sits on the coffee table and begins his line of questioning. “I want you to start telling me what this is all about.”

“Thinking.” Sherlock explains. “It is not for recreation. It’s simply a way to fine tune my brain. I have concluded that over the last couple weeks I have been suffering from a neurochemical imbalance. Since in the past cocaine has proven to be an excellent stimulant to improve my deductive skills, I started with that first. I am attempting a ‘jump start’ of sorts and working out the correct dosage.”

“Sherlock, you don’t play chemistry with your brain with illegal street drugs. You have to see how risky that is.” John says, exasperated.

“I am careful. I reduce the risks, I test the solution thoroughly.”

“Forget that you could give yourself a heart attack, or put yourself back into rehab.”

“The alternative is equally not acceptable. I have to work, John.”

John thinks this all through for a moment. “Let’s back up a minute, okay? Why can’t you work? What is going on?”

Sherlock falls silent.

“Oh no. See, after I find you high as a kite, the mute strategy is no longer in play. You're going to answer me.”

Sherlock fidgets uncomfortably, picking at the hem of his shirt.

“Sherlock...” John warns, growing frustrated, “Better me than some therapist in rehab.”

“I'm not being recalcitrant. It's not something I can easily explain.”

John nods. “I'm kind of pants at this whole talking about feelings thing too. Don't try to go New Age on me. Can you start with a symptom list?”

Sherlock nods, and considers. “I don't have a variety of cases to choose from right now. The Met is still hesitant to pull me in for high profile crimes, so Lestrade can only offer 1 and 2 level cases. My client base has dwindled while I was gone.”

“You mean, after you made everyone believe you were dead.” John couldn't help correcting that. It may be a little petty considering the circumstances, but it was going to be a good long time before he fully lets that go.

“Yes.”

“Your brain is driving you crazy from boredom? The whole tearing yourself apart on the launch pad scenario?”

Sherlock scowls. “That's. Just. It. I don't really seem to want to be a case right now. It's very disturbing.”

John nods. “What else have you been doing? I see some experiments in the kitchen that look like you started on. How about the violin?”

“Nothing holds my interest. So ergo, I began the stimulant methodology of which you disapprove.”

John thinks for a moment and considers his next words carefully. “If I told you I had a patient that came into my office with complaints of loss of appetite, malaise, lack of interest in things they once enjoyed and they were actively avoiding going out and seeing people, what would you diagnose?”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and doesn’t look at John.

“Did something...bad happen when you were fighting Moriarty’s network? Something you haven't told me about yet?”

Sherlock closes his eyes.

_Waiting in a darkened hotel room. Check silencer and chamber a round. Hear the click of the door handle being opened. Positive identification of target. Aim, point blank range. Pause breath. Trigger pull. Exit nearby stairwell. Deposit gloves in rubbish bin. Hail taxi and go across town, dispose of pistol in industrial park. Walk two miles to the train station to the airport. Vomit on the platform._

“Yes, something bad happened. Several ‘bad’ things. I wasn't on a holiday,” he replies snidely. “However the details of my little adventure are not the underlying cause of my current aliment.”

John decides not to pry too much into that right now. “Why don't you want to leave the house, Sherlock?”

“What difference does it make?” Sherlock huffs. “You and Lestrade work all day and return home to your spouses. Ms. Hudson has her bridge clubs and knitting circles, and there is only so much of her nattering I can take. There is no impetus to seek others' company when I can sit here and speak to my skull.”

Realization tolls like a bell inside John's head. Sherlock has, for all intents and purposes, returned home from a war. He has come back to a lonely flat. He isn't on good terms with his family. His friends are around, but relationships change, and it's hard to pick up right where one has left off after two years. Especially when a certain idiot dramatically popped off a rooftop and let everyone bury him.

While Sherlock's resurrection was big in the news, it doesn't come as a surprise that he really doesn't have many clients yet. Hiring a showy private investigator that appears in the tabloids would not be a first choice if a client's desire is to keep things private. Lestrade may be offering him low profile cases in sympathy, but of course Sherlock would suss that out. He probably feels less than useless, and no idea how he is going to fit back into his own life.

A lot like how John felt when he came back from Afghanistan.

“Shit.” John hisses.


	2. Restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John sees the similarities between Sherlock's situation and when John returned from the service, he knows he needs to take action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fluff chapter to balance out the angst in Chapter 1.

“I think I found the case.” Lestrade says without preamble after John picks up on the call.

“Fantastic, what is it?” John is in Tesco. He generally hates taking calls when he is in the shops, but he has waited all week for this. He stops in an aisle and listens.

“We have a surgeon who was just booked taking drugs out of the dispensary. There is CCTV footage of him going in the building at the time of the crime. Thing is, he claims he didn’t do it and says he can prove he was out of town during one of the thefts.”

John smiles. This plan is going to work. “That’s perfect, Greg. Have someone run it over to Sherlock. I’ll text him now.”

“Will do and good luck mate. I’ll let you know what happens on my end.”

####

_I need your advice._

_**Stop ordering takeaway from Lee Ho’s –SH**_

_More like a professional favor_

_Can you look at something for me?_

_**What? –SH** _

_Lestrade is going to send someone over with a file._

_**A case? I’m not working right now. –SH**_

_It’s a surgeon and a good one. He may be innocent of a crime._

_It’s a colleague. I’d hate to lose him._

_**Seems boring. –SH**_

_It’s a favor. You’ll probably solve it in minutes._

_I know you are just sitting around._

_When have I asked you for help?_

_???_

_**I’ll look at it. –SH** ___

__

John grins. He simply needs Sherlock to solve a crime again. He doesn’t think Sherlock can be convinced to just start working on something, anything. Especially since the cases Lestrade has available are petty on the Holmes interest rating system. 

Of course, if John somehow makes it into a personal favor, he is confident he won’t be refused. Trying to pull one over Sherlock is almost impossible, but this case is almost tailor-made for his purposes. He doesn't know Dr. Sainani personally, but he is a respected surgeon. As a physician he is technically a colleague. He doesn't even have to try to lie. 

__The trick was to find a case that looked like John needed Sherlock’s help. Lestrade had been digging around case files and crime reports all week trying to find something, anything that they could use. Thank you Dr. Sainani!_ _

__Phase Two of John’s rescue plan is going to be a lot trickier. He really has no idea how Sherlock will react. He isn’t even sure it is the right thing to do because the stakes are a bit high. If he fails the consequences would fall on an innocent third party. Well, he’ll have to accept the responsibility of his mistake somehow if it doesn’t work out._ _

__John hopes Mary won’t mind that he will probably be spending the evening on his laptop. He supposes he’ll start on Gumtree and go from there. Maybe send out some emails and ask around. One thing's for sure. He will do his very best to see that Sherlock Holmes is no longer living alone in his flat by the end of the month._ _

__####_ _

____

### __From the Blog of John H. Watson__

__If you are reading this, I guess you have seen the news that Sherlock Holmes dramatically returned from the dead a couple months ago. I really have no wish to duplicate everything you have read in the papers surrounding Mr. Holmes and his clever disappearance. Instead, I hope to pick up where we left off, and blog about his future cases now he is back in the consulting detective business._ _

__Recently, Mr. Holmes was able to clear the name of a celebrated pediatric surgeon, Dr. Dhruv Sainani. Dr. Sainani was a victim of a jealous colleague, Dr. Frank Mellers, who tried to implicate him in a theft. This case is full of intrigue and clever disguises, but none clever enough to elude Mr. Holmes. London and the National Health Service owes a debt to Mr. Holmes for preserving the career of Dr. Sainani, who can now continue to serve the children of London._ _

You can read all about the details of “The Adventure of The Stymied Surgeon” in the “Cases” Section in the sidebar. 

As always, potential clients are welcome to email Mr. Holmes to contract for casework. 

**Comments**

_Deerstaker writes:_

Whoo! You’re back! We Believed!

_SH writes:_

What is the proper Internet vernacular? “I see what you did there.” 

_Molly writes:_

Oh John, this is great to see you both working together again 

__####_ _

__“John.” Sherlock scowls from over his laptop, “John, what have you brought into my home?”_ _

__John smiles and sets the puppy on the floor. “This is Gladstone. He’s an English Bulldog.”_ _

__“I was being inaccurate. Why is there a dog in my flat?” Sherlock snaps the top of his laptop down and balefully stares at the puppy snuffling along his carpet._ _

__“Well, I was hoping he could stay here a few days.” John tries, “Mrs. Hudson said it was fine.”_ _

__“No. I am certainly not watching a puppy.” Sherlock protests, scooping up the dog. “You have a flat. Take him to your flat.” The puppy wiggles in Sherlock’s grasp as he holds him out to John._ _

__John holds his hands away in helplessness, refusing to take back the dog. “I can’t Sherlock. He was for us, you see, but we found out Mary is allergic to dogs. I was really hoping you could just keep him for a couple days. Just long enough so I can sort out another owner for him.”_ _

__“John, do I really seem like the person to tend to a useless animal?”_ _

__On cue, Mrs. Hudson comes in with tea and biscuits. “John! Is that Gladstone? Oh my goodness what a little thing!” She sets down the tray and takes the dog from Sherlock, and Gladstone starts to energetically lick and squirm in delight in her arms. “Oh look at his wrinkles! He will be fun, don’t you think Sherlock?”_ _

__“No. Absolutely not.”_ _

__“Of course he will! I can even take him for walkies when you are on cases. It will be perfect. Wouldn’t you like that Gladstone? Walkies? ” She coos at the little puppy. John swears he can hear Sherlock's eyes roll._ _

__“It seems Mrs. Hudson would be happy to take him, John.” Sherlock waves his hands at his landlady, who is vigorously ruffling Gladstone’s wrinkles._ _

__“Oh dear, I can help but I can’t possibly take a bulldog all by myself. My hip, you know.” She says sadly. “We can do it together, you and me Sherlock. He’s so cute, and the poor thing has nowhere to go for a few days. Certainly you won’t have John put him out, would you dear?” Mrs. Hudson puts on her very best expression of misery. “Poor thing is just a baby.”_ _

__Sherlock throws his hands in the air dramatically. “A few days. John Watson, if he is not out in that time I shall call Dr. Stapleton and see if she needs any new lab subjects. Are we clear?”_ _

__“Crystal.” John winks at Mrs. Hudson conspiratorially._ _

__“Don’t think for a moment I don’t know what you are about.” Sherlock grouses, “I can tell you are lying to me. Get rid of the dog. ”_ _

__####_ _

__Gladstone never becomes a resident of Baskerville._ _

__At the end of the week, Mrs. Hudson sends a John a blurry photo from her camera phone._ _

__Sherlock is asleep in his chair, and Gladstone is in a tight ball in his lap._ _

__John, friend he is, puts it on the blog._ _

__####_ _

**_Come at once. Contacted about a jewel heist. –SH_ **

_Dinner with Mary. There in two hours._

**_Acceptable. -SH_**

__####_ _

__John hates that he still has to do this. It stings of mistrust, but it simply too important to skip._ _

__Sherlock is sulking on the sofa. John realizes a puppy and new interesting clients won’t magically make things better overnight. John knows it takes awhile to adapt and carve out a life, even when things are looking up. It is helping. Sherlock has to leave the flat to walk Gladstone and he even cherry-picks a few investigations that appeal to him. Sherlock is still horribly thin though, and prone to long silent evenings when he can’t even be bothered to reply to texts._ _

__“Let me see.”_ _

__“You do realize I can simply choose a less obvious vein.” Sherlock huffs, annoyed. “I'm clean.”_ _

__“I'd rather not have you piss in a cup. Let me see.”_ _

__Sherlock flings his left arm out, swatting John in the process. John hikes up his sleeve and only finds smooth skin._ _

__“You're doing really well.” John encourages quietly, and squeezes his arm before letting it go. The checking is nothing but a ritual, a formality to say what John finds hard to put into words. I'm here, I care and I'm looking out for you._ _

__Sherlock must know, because he doesn’t have anything snippy to say._ _

__Gladstone breaks the mood and waddles by. He is wearing a new and rather expensive rolled leather collar. Probably hand-stitched. John suspects he is the most spoiled bulldog in London. The puppy makes a decent attempt to snitch John's sandwich sitting on the coffee table, and the sobriety check is soon forgotten._ _

__####_ _

__John hurries across the park, looking at his watch. He's late and doesn't have a lot of time on his break today. Sherlock has some crime scene photos for him to look at, and it's right back to work. They have finally been cleared to consult in Homicide again, and Sherlock has been working through case backlogs. He assumes the photos are going to be of some grizzly corpse, so lunch is right out anyway._ _

__He's expecting a peeved text from Sherlock any second, but he doesn't wait to slow down and send a message. He's just a few yards away from the meeting spot near the dog run at any rate. He can already see the back of Sherlock's curly head; he's on a park bench, sitting companionably close to another man with short brown hair. He hears Sherlock's rare, deep baritone laugh as he approaches and it slows John's steps in surprise._ _

__“Afternoon.” John says as he reaches them. He gets the peculiar feeling that he's intruding when Sherlock and the other man look up at him. The stranger appears to be close to Sherlock's age. He has a ready, dimpled smile, and when he stands he's just a bit taller than John, but more slight of build. He has tousled brown hair, black plastic glasses and is wearing a rather posh cashmere v-neck sweater. He extends his hand to John and the handshake is firm._ _

__Sherlock makes the introduction. “Dr. John Watson, Dr. Darin Allard.” Sherlock drawls as if bored and doesn't get up. “Darin is a doctor of botany and biochemistry. He specializes in phytotoxicology .”_ _

__“Plant poisons.” Darin simplifies helpfully, “I've heard a lot about you, Dr. Watson and I have started to read your blog. It's a pleasure.”_ _

__“Mine I'm sure.”_ _

__“I know you two are working on a project, so I'll collect Sophie and be gone.” Darin motions at the run, where a terrier is chasing circles around stumpy Gladstone. “Sherlock, it was nice talking with you again.” After an awkward pause, he suggests, “My talk on cyanogenic glucosides is at 6:00pm at the horticultural center on Thursday.”_ _

__“Good luck, I'm sure it will be captivating.” Sherlock dismisses, ”Good afternoon Dr. Allard”._ _

__Darin looks crestfallen, “Ah. Well then...good afternoon Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson.”_ _

__Sherlock's gaze follows the other man closely as he leaves. His eyes rake down his body as he leashes his dog, until Darin looks over his shoulder at them one last time. Caught, Sherlock glances away, suddenly fascinated by his Italian shoes. A slight rose flush spreads across his cheekbones and he stares steadfastly at his footwear. Darin quirks a little smile and walks down the path._ _

__John takes the vacated seat on the bench and waits a minute to make sure Darin is out of earshot._ _

__“To imagine I'd live to see the day that Sherlock Holmes is pulling at the dog park.”_ _

__“Oh do shut up.”_ _

__John grins. “The cute dog trick is the oldest in the book.”_ _

__Sherlock glares daggers at him but his blush is deepening. John is almost giddy._ _

__“He's posh, attractive and is into plant poisons. I hope you invite us to the civil partnership.”_ _

__Sherlock huffs. “I don't have relationships, John.”_ _

__John smiles. This is just too good. “You could just get a leg over.”_ _

__“That's not even funny!” Sherlock looks so traumatized by the idea that John breaks into a fit of giggles until he has tears in his eyes._ _

__John pulls himself together and glances at Sherlock sulking. “Don't even tell me you’re not interested.”_ _

__“I find it incredible that you choose this opportunity to become observant. You should save it for a time it would be valuable since it is such a rare phenomenon.”_ _

__“Are you going to that lecture? He was asking you to go, you know.”_ _

__Sherlock has his arms folded over himself protectively. “No.”_ _

__John shakes his head, “Um, why not?”_ _

__“It will give him the wrong impression. Even I know that it would be cruel to appear to encourage romantic overtones where none are intended.”_ _

__“Mate, that ship sailed when he just caught you looking at his arse.”_ _

__Sherlock's eyes go wide. “I...wasn't...”_ _

__John finally decides to show mercy. “Look, even an idiot like me can tell you both like each other. Stop overthinking things for once, you berk, you are rushing way ahead. Why don't you just be nice to him and see what happens? Have you ever even been on a date? Muddle through like the rest of us, get to know each other.”_ _

__“Kill. Me. Now. Are you about done? Can we please dispense with this nonsense?” Sherlock whines._ _

__John chuckles and lets the matter drop, but he is absolutely thrilled at these turn of events, whatever they are._ _

__#####_ _

**_I have been remiss. -SH_**

_What?_

**_Thank you. -SH_**

**_You didn’t have to help me, or even forgive me, considering my actions two years ago. -SH_**

_Is this Anderson? Did you steal Sherlock’s phone?_

**_John, don’t be obtuse. -SH_ **

_Go to bed, it’s late. Mary is threatening to flush my phone in the toilet._

_I’m happy things are better._

_I love you too, you tosser._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the tale ends for me, but I have ideas buzzing around for an epilogue- what happens with Sherlock and Darin. It's fanfic and someone needs to be 'shipped! 
> 
> Please leave a comment or Kudos, and maybe it will encourage me to put that out there.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for my friends at a certain crafting social media site. You know who you all are.
> 
> Roses and candies to my faithful Beta and Britpicker, Gowerstreet. Go read her stuff.


End file.
